


To You, The Sea

by TheDemonLedger



Category: If We Were Villains - M.L. Rio
Genre: Domestic Violence, Escapism, Falling In Love, Flashbacks, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mild Language, Mildly Dubious Consent, Minor Violence, Moving On, Non-Graphic Violence, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Reunions, Reunited and It Feels So Good, Tags Are Hard, Tags May Change, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-14
Updated: 2020-01-21
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:53:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22258264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDemonLedger/pseuds/TheDemonLedger
Summary: James left many years ago, leaving behind only a note to his friends and one to his love. He hoped they’d never figure him out. Now, on an island off the coast of British Columbia, Oliver finds him, hiding from his ghosts. Can they reconnect? Or is the past too hard to reconcile with the present staring him right in the face?Reposted to finalize as a complete work.
Relationships: James Farrow/Oliver Marks, James Farrow/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 25





	1. New Beginnings

**Author's Note:**

> Hi - if you've seen this title before and it looks familiar, I'm so sorry. I did take this down in order to put it up without so much space in between the chapters. Each chapter will be released on Tuesdays between 12pm and 4pm PST. Enjoy!  
> Disclaimer: All rights reserved to M.L. Rio and Macmillan publishers. I take no ownership or credit for characters originally created by M.L. Rio for _If We Were Villains_.

The ocean, in its wild grandeur, beat the rocks which sheltered the cove my home sat atop of. The lighthouse on the distant island beat a steady rhythm, and although the moon was shining a crystal beam, the light still hovered through my window three seconds at a time. Its ten second journey was one I sometimes counted, when the stormy sea was loud and the nightmares were bad. Dreams of Oliver’s dark eyes following me, and Richard’s pale body floating, almost lifeless, in that shallow, unforgettable lake rotated endlessly in my mind, even waking. My body shivered against the cold. Winds, strong and stubborn, force their wretched fingers through my windbreaker. My cigarette is only half finished, but the weather forces me inside, to the radiator emitting substandard heat, and my coffee maker, no longer bubbling. I close my eyes, and for one slow moment, I see Oliver hovering above me, and I am twenty-two again and so afraid. But when I open my eyes, Oliver is gone; instead, I am thirty-two and the fear remains. I pour a cup of coffee to push away what remains of sleep and check the clock. Four-forty-five am: the boat taking me to shore would be here soon.

A horn blows in the distance, low and sharp, signalling me of its imminent arrival. Strangely, the anxiety that comes when the time to go ashore breaches is absent this morning, replaced by a longing to see someone or something other than the Macbethian ghosts of my dreams. In some ways, going to shore would be a relief. I knew once I got there, however, walking the streets of Vancouver between work and errands, it would be a different story. I stand by my window, watching as the storm flays the ship as it moves closer to the coast of my island home. Exhausted, I pack a few essential items into my backpack and drain the last of my coffee, rinsing the mug before exiting the house. Bracing against the strong winds that buffet me, I try to make my steady way to the docks.

The docks; a horrifying memory triggers every time I step on the wooden planks that sit on the edge of the dark ocean. I shake from the cold that creeps in through my windbreaker again, and close my eyes against the image of Richard floating on that black water in front of me. The boats high beam strikes me sharply, and I wince, but ready myself to board.

Once a week, I head to shore for three days and work odd jobs, making enough money to stock up on groceries and pay my bills. The quiet existence I’d strung along had gotten me by thus far. My concern was less my ability to eat and live. Was I far enough away from home? The note I’d left in my car all those years ago had been vague, but I read the article the same as the next person, and knew they hadn’t found a body to call mine. Would Oliver dig, or Phillipa? They were smart, but some part of me couldn’t conclusively decide whether or not they were stubborn enough to dig this deep. I could see Charlie waving from the front of the boat, so close is its proximity, and I wave back, shaking myself from my thoughts. The boat docks, and Charlie throws open the gangway door, allowing me to step onto the quarterdeck and then into the sheltered captains chamber.

“How’re you?” Charlie asked, rubbing his hands together as Howard, the captain, nods in my direction and steered the boat away. I shrug. “C’mon then, let’s get you warmed up. It’s freezin’ out there!” He laughs and gestures for me to follow him down the stairs into the lower deck. It was warmer down here by far, but still a chill ran through me at the ideas that I couldn’t get out of my head. Charlie’s face, however, was a welcome sight. His bright pink cheeks are round and his smile is welcoming. I shift awkwardly from foot to foot before sitting in one of the low-backed booth benches and pull a notepad from my backpack. Charlie stands for a moment, staring at me.

“Are you going to sit?” I ask, voice hoarse from lack of use. Charlie shrugs.

“You hungry, Jamie?” he asks, using the nickname he knows I hate. I wince but nod.

“Maybe a little,” I reply, ignoring the name. “Whatcha got?” I look up at him. His green eyes scour my face hungrily, and I know what he’s thinking. I frown and shake my head a little, watching disappointment fill his eyes. He clears his throat.

“Eggs,” he replies, “but they’re powdered. And bacon, but it’s froze.”

“So, nothing,” I say, a little tightly. He shrugs and sits across from me. I look back down at the notepad, which contains all the letters I’d written to Oliver, but never sent. He watches me start a new one.

“Who’re you writing to?” he asks, leaning forward to look closer. I pull the notepad away.

“A friend,” I reply. I look up at him. “Will I see you tonight?” A smile pulls on the edges of Charlie’s face, but it’s low and filled with regret.

“I’ve got another pickup tonight, off Washington. So, not until tomorrow, I think,” he says. His tone sounds sad, and is badly hiding his longing. I rub my eyes, trying to push the tired out of them. Charlie jumps up. “Let me get you some coffee, James.” He moves swiftly into the tiny galley, barely big enough to fit a man his size. He pulls out two mugs and dumps hot coffee into them, spilling a little on his hand and cursing under his breath. I watch him: the easy movements and sweet smiles all seem so genuine. My past haunts me and I am desperate to forget it; he seems all put together. I could do worse. I tilt my head to one side as I accept the mug from him on his return, and sip it as he sits. Palm up, I offer my hand across the table and he takes it. A smile crosses my lips, but I know it only half reaches my eyes.

“Did you always want to help on a boat like this, Charlie?” I ask, though I suspect I already know the answer. He nods enthusiastically.

“Yeah, I did. My father was a sailor in the war, and since it’s been a long time since Canada’s really been in a big war, I figured this was the best that I could do for now,” he says.

“What war?” I ask, confused.

“World War Two,” he replies, chuckling and frowning. “What other thing is called ‘the war’, Jamie?” he laughs harder. I squint at him.

“Charlie, how old are you?” I ask, even more confused.

“Oh yeah, I’m only thirty-five. My father was an old man when he had me. Nearly sixty, I would say,” he hangs his head, then looks up at me, a sad smile creasing his eyes. “He died, I’d say about ten years ago now.” The reminder of ten years ago send an electric shock through me, and I’m thrown back to that pond on the school grounds and the dark, dark night. For a moment I can’t escape the flashback, the hook coming down on Richard’s skull, the blood on my hands, on my shirt - a wave of nausea sweeps me and suddenly I’m covered in sweat. I jump up from the table and practically run to the sink in the galley, dry heaving into its wide, metal basin. Charlie is a few steps behind me, and one of his large hands falls gently onto my back. I twitch at his touch but don’t shake him off. The warmth of his hand feels comfortable and familiar. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and rinse the sink with cold water, splashing some onto my face. Before I can even look for one, Charlie is offering me a towel.

“Are you okay?” he asks, concern marring his round, cheerful features. I smile and nod.

“Must be something I ate last night,” I say. “Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine once we can get to shore and I can get some real food in me.” Charlie nods.

“Sure,” he replies, smoothing his hand a few times over my back. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah,” I nod. “Can you go grab my toothbrush? It’s in the smallest bag in my backpack.” Charlie nods and takes off, returning moments later with my toiletry bag. I pull out my travelling toothbrush and a small tube of toothpaste, running the sink to wet it briefly before brushing my teeth hard. When I finish, I look at him and smile in gratitude. He still has his hand on my back, and is staring me down. I fight the urge to run away, and instead turn to him, back pressed up against the sink. He takes my face in his hands; Charlie is several inches taller than me, with a broad, strong, boatman's build and wide, calloused hands. He leans in, pressing his lips delicately to mine, and I respond in kind, pressing up onto the balls of my feet. My hands find his shoulders, and for a moment, the kiss is awkward and strained. I’d kissed him before - hell, more even, when drunk or tired, or in the early morning before my inhibitions kick in. But now, with the memory of Oliver’s lips on mine all those long years ago, I can feel the weight of the omission pressing on me, and feel as though I’ve been lying to Charlie all this time we’ve known each other.

I ignore it: the feeling, the memories, they all get pushed back as I wrap my arms tighter around his neck and press my lips harder against his. He lifts me onto the counter with ease, and the small galley is suddenly too tight, too cramped. I can feel his hands winding their way down my sides, coming to pull my hips forward to meet his. His lips leave mine and travel down my face and over my neck, to the exposed skin above my collar. My head falls back. If I close my eyes and feign just right, I can pretend it is Oliver’s lips on me, and that I’m not hiding after faking my own death. When Charlie’s rough hand slips up my shirt and flutters over my ribs, I gasp and clutch at his hair. It’s wrong, so wrong, because for all the secrets and lies, some part of me wants to forget my past and focus on this moment, right here, with this fucking sailor.

But I can’t.

I push him away, gently, and give him a sad smile. “I don’t feel super good. Maybe this can hold off until tomorrow?” I ask. His eyes search mine, and he nods a little.

“Sure, of course,” he whispers, and helps me down off the counter.

The rest of the boat ride is uneventful. Charlie has to go above board to receive two more passengers, and we make it through the stormy sea to the port on the edge of Vancouver close to seven in the morning. The sun is just a glimmer over the edge of the horizon, and the October air is cold and wet. The streets run high with rain; I can hear water flowing down them and into the drains. I give Charlie a perfunctory hug.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, then,” I say when he releases me. He nods and smooths a hand over the back of my head quickly. I look around, making sure there’s no prying eyes, and give him a chaste kiss on the cheek and turn to leave.

“I’ll stop by at the cafe,” he says. “And James,” he calls after me; I turn back to look at him. He’s jogging to meet me. “You’re gonna have to stay in the city during the winter. Sea’s just too rough to bring you in and out like this.” I frown and nod.

“I know, this is my fourth year here, afterall,” I reply. I’m angry at the reminder, that for three months I’ll be in the plain view of people, wandering a large city where anyone could find me. Anyone from my past - anyone who recognizes my face. I’d kept a watchful eye ‘til this point, but there was no denying, I felt anxious about staying here. My face hot, I give him a curt nod and turn to go.

Vancouver was bigger than I’d imagined it the first time I came here - wide streets and tall buildings line the more business centric part of town, with busses and shuttles running people to and from their desired destinations. Part of me was still staggered by the sheer volume of people up and about at seven-thirty in the morning. Cars, busses, and people line the streets - they aren’t packed by any means, but the business of the hour is contrasted by the remaining darkness in the sky. I walk, enjoying the cool against my still hot and angry face, and tuck my hands deeper into my pockets. The building I’m heading for isn’t exactly close, but about a thirty minute walk away from the docks, which gives me time to contemplate why exactly I did what I did. Every morning, at least once a morning, I think about the fake suicide note, the desperate search for my body, the news reports of my parents grief and Oliver. I knew, because I still kept tabs on the case, that Oliver was released five months ago. Where he was staying, I wasn’t sure, but he was free. I wonder vaguely if Phillipa told him about what happened, or if he’s sitting in a lonely flat waiting for me to call, or visit, unaware that I would never come by. Perhaps it was cowardice that caused me to do it. Some sort of emphatic ending to the desperately disorganized life I’d lived after Richard; or a way to keep anyone from every finding out what I did. Oliver’s inability to leave well enough alone was what did it in the end.

If he’d just let me go, none of this would have happened. I shake that thought away. Oliver was not to blame for my decision to park my car at a ferry dock with false notes and board a ferry to Canada, just as he wasn’t a bad man for taking my place and trying to protect me. I look around and turn left, heading down a small alley that cuts straight to the street I need to be on. It’s dank and dirty, wet from rain and smelling of piss and garbage, but it’s the fastest way to the cafe I was set to open this early Tuesday morning.

The rain starts just as I enter the cafe, keys jingling on their ring. The chairs are set up on the tables, and the lights are all off. I flick the switch as I head into the backroom, watching the fluorescents flicker on in the old, French-style coffee-house. I stuff my backpack and coat into a locker and dig the combination lock from my coat pocket, twirling it to open before jamming it through the lock-hole and crunching it shut. My apron and name tag - bearing my middle name, Michael - hang by the punch-clock, and I pull them with me as I drive my time-card into the slot, hearing the telltale stamp and ding as the time seven thirty-three is punched onto the floppy, waxed paper in dark blue ink. I sigh and step out into the cafe.

#

The job made good tips - otherwise I wouldn’t have done it. Too much work - too much empathy for coffee slinging and pastry warming. My knees tremble with exhaustion as I sit in one of the three chairs in the staff room, gathering my things from my locker. My coworker, Eve, stands beside me, talking animatedly in her heavy, but indeterminable accent, though her words don’t stick with me; instead, they washed over me, lulling me into a post-shift trance.

“James,” she nudges my foot with hers. “You listenin’?”

“Uh,” I reply, shaken from my brief mental reprieve. “No, I’m sorry, Eve. What were you saying?”

“I was sayin’, there’s just no way that shack is comfortable, way out in the middle ‘a nowhere!” Eve exclaims, crossing her arms dejectedly over her chest. “You should come an’ stay with me. I ‘ave a nice place on th’ edge ‘a town.”

“Thanks, Eve, but I’ve got a place to stay when I’m here,” I say softly, and look up at her frowning face. “And I like my shack out in the middle of nowhere.” I stand, removing my apron to hang it on a hook by the exit. “See you tomorrow,” I intone, waving as I step out into the main lobby, and make a mental note never to end up alone with Eve. The cafe is quiet, not exactly empty, but not humming with the same amount of customers it was at opening. The other Michael waves as I exit through the front door, bell tinkling as I go.

The streets I walk now aren’t bustling, and the quiet emptiness fills me with relief. I walk quickly to the hotel where I rent a room in exchange for work, and open the door to the shabby estate, which rings with a bell of its own as I enter. The tiled floors are cracked and wet from the shoes tracking in the rain, and the whole place smells of overcooked cabbage, but behind the desk sits Adrian, an older man reading a dog-eared and well loved copy of _All Quiet on the Western Front_ , which he sets down quickly when he hears the bell.

“James,” he says warmly, standing to greet me. “Rachel’s in her office - I think she has work for you.” I nod and sigh.

“I was hoping to get a nap in,” I complain quietly. Adrian shrugs.

“I think she might be willing to pay you this week,” he whispers. “Sandra just quit, so there’s extra things to be done.” I nod again and sidle past him, into the back room. A middle-aged woman sits at an old, but mostly functional desktop computer, typing quickly into the keyboard while smoke drifts from a cigarette in the ashtray beside her. She lifts one finger to acknowledge my presence and keeps typing for another moment, then dramatically hits a key and swivels in her chair to face me, hands gathered in her lap. She smiles and stands, but not before picking up her cigarette and taking a long drag.

“How was the boat trip?” she asks croakily. I shrug.

“I got sick,” I say, “like I always do.” She waffles back and forth, seeming on the brink of speech. She takes another long drag from her cigarette then stamps it out in the ashtray, lips pursed.

“James, I want to hire you full time, if you’ll take it. Sandra quit and I don’t have time to find another employee on such short notice before the holiday season,” she pauses and clears her throat. “American’s like to come up here for their Thanksgiving, and Christmas is always busy.” I nod, but don’t speak for a long moment. She fidgets, obviously flustered. “I’ll pay you nine dollars an hour, and deduct only the cost of your room, since you’ll be doing your own laundry and cleaning.”

I consider her offer for a moment, looking into her kind eyes and bright smile. She has tobacco stains on her teeth, and the corners of her eyes wrinkle as the edges of her mouth lift. She purses her lips again. “Yeah, alright,” I say slowly. “But I’m making eleven at the coffee shop,” I say truthfully, because the eight and some change I made on my paycheck was bolstered by the few bucks extra I made an hour in tips, “and I’ll have to quit to work here.” I pause, waiting for her answer. “And I want Sunday’s off.” Rachel wrinkles her nose, but nods. “I can start next week,” I say, taking her proffered hand. She nods again, and sighs.

“Can you not start any earlier?” she pleads.

“I can start full-time next week, Rachel, I’m sorry,” I say. “If I’m gonna move here, even temporarily, I have to get some things.” Rachel nods and sighs again, then gestures for me to follow her. She walks me through the basic steps I already know, as well as the more complicated parts of Sandra’s job, like when to return guests laundry and shining shoes left out in the hall overnight. The job, I notice, is predominantly done in the evening hours, after late check in at seven thirty. But the tasks are routine, and easy enough, so I do them without complaint.

#

Around midnight, I feel the weight of the day pressing itself upon me, steely hands on my weak shoulders, and I yawn as I head downstairs, to the lobby. The night clerk, a young woman named Alice, sits with her feet up on the desk, staring out the front windows at the monsoon-esque rain as it pours in waving sheets from the sky. She glances over, then nods courteously at me.

“‘Sup,” she says dismissively. I shrug and step into Rachel’s office. It’s empty, and her old computer’s screen is dark. I glance around, feeling out of place and illatease, but scribble a quick note on the notepad by her computer and leave, reminding her of the job I still had to go to tomorrow morning. When the phone at the front desk rings, I start and jump, my heart skipping beats within my chest. I watch Alice pick up, her low voice happy and soothing. “It’s for you, James,” she says. I frown and accept the phone.

“This is James,” I say softly.

“Jamie,” says Charlie on the other end of the phone, “I thought maybe you’d be asleep. Someone wanted to switch shifts with me, so I’m off the rest of the night.”

“Oh,” I whisper, glancing at Alice. She raises an eyebrow at me then continues to stare disinterestedly out the door. “Uh, okay.” I don’t know how to respond: what did Charlie want me to say, exactly? An awkward silence falls between us, and I can hear the crackling of the phone on the other end. He clears his throat.

“Can I come over?” he asks finally, his voice nothing but a hoarse whisper. I grit my teeth; I wanted to be alone tonight, but saying no would only make him sad, I knew. I struggle for a moment, trying to decide how to respond.

“Yeah,” I respond, resigned to the idea. “You know where to find me.” Charlie’s chuckle on the end of the line almost makes it worth the effort of staying up a little longer - almost being the key word.

“I do,” he replies, and the line goes dead, a long beep ringing in my ear. I set the phone back down on the hook and look at Alice. She cocks one eyebrow at me.

“Your boyfriend?” she asks casually. I shrug.

“Something,” I reply. I stare out the window with her at the torrential downpour and wonder about my life: how had I ended up someplace like this? I turn to leave, nodding my head at Alice as I do so. She clears her throat, causing me to pause.

“Where did you come from, James?” she asks. I’m taken aback: in all the years I’d known Alice, I’d never known her to be interested in anyone but herself and, briefly, customers. I turn, eyeing her suspiciously.

“California,” I answer, mostly truthfully. “Why?” Alice shakes her head and gives me a once over.

“Just wondering,” she replies kindly, a soft smile on her face. “I’ll send him up once he gets here.” I narrow my eyes at her, a question burning behind my lips, but swallow it fully and make my way up the steep, narrow staircase. My room is on the top floor - of course it is - and by the time I get to the top, I am winded and exhausted from the ten flights of stairs stretched out behind me. I use the key in my lock and push open the door.

It’s the same every week; they leave it for me to make up and wash, which I do before I leave and after I come back, to rid the room of dust and the smell of this old hotel. I’d stripped the bed of its original spread long ago, folding it neatly and tucking it away in the bottom drawer of the dresser, knowing the scratchy fabric would always be there if I needed to leave this place for good. Some part of me lurched at the idea of living in this tiny hotel room, off microwaved meals and stale chips, but I swallow that down too, trying to keep my head on my shoulders and not run from the desperate situation I’d put myself in when I’d faked my death. James was a common name, and my mother’s maiden name, Smith, made me almost untraceable. I sat on the bed, running my hand over the only large item I owned: my quilt. It was something I’d taken from my childhood home, if you could call it that. A collected association of all the memories I ever had was bound up in the patchwork fabric. Even as I stared at it, I felt my throat constrict and my heart begin to race. What had I done? Was all of this: the hiding, the lying - was it worth it just to escape a past I wasn’t sure I’d ever be able to get away from? I didn’t know the answer, wasn’t sure I ever would. 

The knock on the door startles me and I jump up, suddenly desperate for company that wouldn’t question or react. Charlie’s face is a blessing, his slightly greying hair and eyes that wrinkle at the corners a comfort on a night like tonight. I pull him into the room, and his hands are immediately upon me, up my shirt, over my skin, his calloused hands rough and heavy and rushing. He pushes me back to the bed, where he lays me down and whispers something obscene in my ear, and I don’t reply, because I don’t have to. All I have to do is let him have me, because it’s the only time that I can close my eyes and not see the ghosts that haunt me.

#

I wake in the morning with Oliver’s name on my tongue and Charlie’s arm around my waist. We are both naked. It’s too early to be light, but the alarm beside my bed is going off and I can’t ignore it anymore. I twist the clock towards me; six thirty-five. Charlie’s grip tightens as I move, his large, muscular arm a vice around my skinny waist. I can’t even pretend I don’t feel a twinge of fear running up me as I try to extract myself from his grip. He groans and wakes, releasing me to rub his eyes with the back of his hand.

“What time is it?” he murmurs, blinking in the low light. I smile gently at him and swing my legs slowly out of the bed, feeling that same silent exhaustion taking through me like it did last night.

“Almost seven,” I reply numbly. His hand trails at the base of my spine.

“When do you have to be at work?” he asks, fingers tickling my skin. I shift away, uncomfortable.

“Seven thirty.” The hardwood floor is cold beneath my feet, shocking. I pick up my discarded boxers and pull them on over my slim hips before turning to face him again. He lays on his side, watching me with animal eyes. His lips curl into a smile.

“You can’t be late?” he asks.

“No,” I laugh. “But I didn’t get a chance to tell you last night,” I pause, heaving a breath. “I’m staying here for a while. Rachel offered me a more permanent gig, so I’ll just be…” I trail off and shrug, gesturing around the room. “Here.” He stares at me for a long moment, his mouth a small ‘o’ of surprise. I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear, waiting. Charlie’s silence fills me up, in a way that a genuine reaction wouldn’t have, and for a minute I’m concerned that my announcement may not have been what he wanted.

“James,” he says finally, smiling brightly. “That’s great.” He moves off the bed and towards me, his hulking frame as imposing naked as it is fully clothed. I wince as he hugs me, but try to keep my composure and hug him back. When I move away, there’s a look in his eyes that I can’t quite decipher, something like excitement, but darker.

“I have to get ready,” I say, pulling a clean shirt and a pair of briefs out of my backpack. I throw a thumb over my shoulder and towards the tiny bathroom. “You can stay, if you want. Just make sure the door shuts all the way when you leave.”

“I can -” he stutters, then clears his throat. “I could come with you. In the shower.” I scratch my face, feeling that same, awkward tension I felt on the boat just the day before. I nod, mouth a thin, tense line, and feel anxiety wash over me. I’m stiff when he takes my hand and draws me to my bathroom, and I feel closed off as he takes my chin in his hand once we get there and smothers my mouth with his. It feels unright - not necessarily incorrect or wrong, but off center. Like a lie, or a sweet, desperate mistruth. I pray he doesn’t see the disconnection I feel, but know it’s only a matter of time before I have to admit to him that I am not the man he wants me to be, and I am especially not the man for him.

#

I’m late to work. It’s nearly seven forty when I get the door to the shop unlocked, my hands shaking, causing the keys to jingle a loud, bright sound in my ears. I wince as it slams behind me, making a mental note to fix the hinge before I leave today, and rush to the backroom. I slam my punch card into the slot, knowing full well that my manager will ask questions when he does the books. Tension still fills me, and Oliver’s voice - something that has become both soothing and grating over the past ten years - fills my head, repeating the words ‘let be’ over and over again.

“ _There is a special providence in the fall of a sparrow_ ,” I whisper to myself, quoting the line that runs over and over in my head, like a song I only know some words to. It wasn't something I lost, just pushed down, and when it bubbled up I could feel it. I lean my head against the wall next to the punch clock, feeling the cool, speckled plaster dig into my hot, frazzled skin. “ _If it be now, ‘tis not to come; if it be not to come, it will be now; if it be not now, yet it will come - the readiness is all_. ” My throat grows tight, and tears prick at my eyes, but I push away from the wall and don my apron, feeling almost ready for my day to start. But in my head, dissonant against the chorus of let be’s, I hear Richard: ‘ _Et tu, bruté?_ ’

_Et tu, bruté?_

_Et tu, bruté?_


	2. Forget Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi hi  
> Another reposted chapter, but! Chapter three is done and will be going up soon - I have a lot to do on another fic, so this one is going on the front burner while that one takes the back.   
> Hope you like it. Follow my [tumblr](https://thedemonledger.tumblr.com/) for fandom related stuff - mostly MCU, but we're trickling Shakespeare and Hunger Games and stuff into the mix.   
> xx - Liv

The day passed without incident. Charlie called the hotel around five, and Alice relayed that he wouldn’t be in tonight, since he was covering the traded shift he’d mentioned the night before, but offered to stay Thursday evening so we could board the boat together that would take me home before the sun Friday morning. I agreed, if only to get off the phone; I couldn’t wait to be back on my lonely island, even if it was only temporary. The four days of solitude were exactly what I needed. In any case, I knew Charlie liked me, even if it felt like too much a lot of the time. The evening came, and my ragged exhaustion seeped in, old and familiar. Anymore thought of Charlie would have to wait. I go to bed fully clothed, warm but anxious to be alone. The hotel room, though empty, still feels crowded. Noises from outside on the street echo into my open window. I can’t remember the last time I felt this hollow; I think it was when I left that world for mine. The last four years were a blur of noise, all bright white and colorless, but there were times when I felt full up from accomplishments, little as they were. I close my eyes and flip my pillow, pressing my nose into the cold, soft fabric to breathe in the detergent I use on my things. It smells of lavender but reminds me of Oliver, of his wide, dark eyes and big, boyish, brandy-filled smile. Something inside of me snaps off, and I’m crying. 

I fall asleep with tears in my eyes. 

In my dreams, Oliver and I stand face to face a few feet apart, and he is dressed as Hamlet, and there is a bitter note to his voice with each word he speaks. At first, I can’t make out what he’s saying, but the tone presses itself into me drunkenly, and I stumble away. 

Me: _You will lose this wager my lord._

But Oliver doesn’t respond with the next lines. As at school, he skips forward, losing me; it has been a long time since I picked up any Shakespeare. 

Oliver: _Absent thee from felicity a while,_

_And in this harsh world draw thy breath in pain,_

_To tell my story._

I’m confused, bewildered even, and I cannot catch my breath, which feels that it’s been struck out of me with great force. I stare at him, and I can feel the wideness of my eyes, the chill of my skin as he sinks to his knees, and even as afraid as I am within this nightmare, my mind doesn’t end the fear to wake me as Oliver’s pale face turns to Richard’s brooding one. I’m on the lake, my skin covered in gooseflesh, the night overhead pounding. I’m wet with blood and water; my head is bleeding from where I hit it in the boathouse, but I feel no pain. Richard stands, wavering, in front of me, blood pouring down the side of his face. I swallow. His mouth moves, and I see the words formed before I hear them: 

_“Et tu, bruté?”_

I wake up covered in a cold sweat to my alarm beeping loud and angry. My heart is somewhere in my stomach, beating like a war drum. Bile rises, fast and hot, and it’s all I can do to make it to the bathroom, where I empty the scant contents of my stomach into the toilet, falling to my knees on the hard, white tile. The nightmares don’t stop; even when Charlie sleeps in my bed, keeping it from feeling so vacant. I was, in a lot of uncertain terms, a ghost. I retch again, my stomach muscles contracting with the force of it. I groan. I’m too tired for words, but have work to do, so, standing, I flush the toilet and strip down, and turn the spluttering shower on as hot as it will go. 

It burns my skin, but there’s something calming to the sensation, under which I scrub my flesh almost raw, until I’m pink and hot and scratched from my shower brush. A long sleeve shirt today, to keep the awkward questions at bay, and then the last of my chores here tonight; I was in the home stretch. Even so, my mind felt like a tightrope - stand too heavy on one side of anything, and I might slip into the abyss.

#

Night couldn’t come fast enough, and neither, in turn, could Charlie’s presence. But, in some way, his features looked haggard and tired, and he didn’t feel like the same man when he greeted me at my hotel room door. Something screamed dark through his eyes, but I ignored it, even as the phrase _‘Hung be the heavens with black: yield, day, to night!’_ soared through my head. He moved past me, not trying to put hands on me or submerge my mind in his touch. I stand next to the open door, confused, watching him pace forward and turn around. There’s an uneven tilt to his step, as if drunken, and his eyes don’t focus on me immediately

“Charlie?” I ask carefully, letting the door swing heavily shut behind me. He faces me with his arms crossed over his chest. I step slowly towards him, stopping with only a few feet between us. The small room now seems infinitely cramped, and for a moment I’m tempted to turn and run, as I’ve been doing for four years. But Charlie’s dark features, his confused air and cautious gait stay my feet. 

“What are we, James?” he asks, and I’m cast for a moment in the shadow of Shakespeare - he seemed to speak to me a lot when the city became overwhelming. It builds towards the edge of speech as he wavers where he stands. 

“ _Is love a tender thing? It is too rough, / Too rude, too boisterous, and it pricks like a thorn,”_ I murmur, watching his eyes glaze over in confusion. I don’t know what Charlie and I are; I don’t know how to respond. 

“Be straight with me,” he groans, “none of this-” he waffles back and forth on the brink of speech, then flutters his hand, as though shooing away an annoying fly. I stare at him. “God, do you ever not do that?” 

“Not do what?” I question stupidly. I know exactly what. 

“Quote old shit,” Charlie replies, and his words are slurred and hurried. I feel a prick of annoyance at his tone, but shrug my shoulders. 

“I don’t know,” I say. “I have for a long time.” I purse my lips and shove my hands deep into my pockets, feeling anxiety wash over me. “Why is this all coming up now?” 

“Because, James,” he moves towards me, and I back away, watching hurt bloom on his face and feeling selfish and angry. “Shit like that, and not knowing where your head is, ever, and the nightmares you won’t tell me about-”

“It’s none of your business,” I reply coolly.

“It could be!” he shouts, throwing his hands up. I wince and back away further, but end up against the wall. His eyes are stormy, while mine are full of tears that don’t fall. My heart rips an uncertain rhythm through my chest, beating unevenly to match my uneven breaths. “It could be my business, you could let me in.” He steps towards me again and I turn my head away, breath coming fast and angry. 

“Charlie,” I warn. Fear always came just before my anger, which I could feel too, set just below the surface. “There are things that -” I pause, swallow, fidget, “you wouldn’t understand.” 

“Why?” his voice is hard. 

“Just trust me,” I say. He shakes his head. 

“You don’t even let me near you, sometimes, James, and I have to wonder: what’s your damage, huh? Who fucked you up so bad that you can’t let anyone in?” He pauses and takes another step towards me. “You tell me to trust you but won’t even tell me what the fuck is going on.” His hands are on my hands now, and I yank them away. 

“Don’t touch me,” I spit, feeling but ignoring the vitriol of my words. I look up at him now, and his eyes are wide with surprise but still full of that same injury I caused with each step I took back. “ _I fear, too early: for my mind misgives / some consequence hanging in the stars,_ ” the words are barely a breath, but it sends Charlie over the edge, and before I can react, the back of his hand is meeting my face with tremendous force, enough to knock my small frame off its feet. I hit the floor and lay there, confusion and angry tumbling over and through me like a dark symphony. I don’t move, don’t rise, don’t speak, except to place one hand on my burning cheek. I can feel loathing, acrid as tar smoke, billowing up within me. Charlie just stares at me. 

“You think you’re special, showing up here,” he says. He crouches down, face coming close to mine again, even as I lean away. His breath smells of whiskey, and he, of a stranger’s cologne. “You came out of nowhere. But you’re not special, you’re just scared. Whatever you’re running away from will catch up with you James.” He shakes his head. “It always does.” When he stands and steps back, I don’t look at him. When he leaves, I don’t try to stop him. The same fear, the same anger that met me that night beside the lake, it hits me now like one great wave, and I am as broken as a body on the ocean. 

#

I don’t go home like I’m supposed to on Friday morning. I’m too afraid to face Charlie, afraid perhaps of the loathing I would see there instead of the love. Some part of me wished I’d confessed. That I’d fallen to my knees in that hotel room and begged him to understand.

The other part of me is too scared to make sense of my emotions. 

So I call Howard at the shipyard and schedule a trip home for that evening, even though the rocky sea may be too difficult to face after dark. He sounds sympathetic, but disinterested, and tells me we’ll try. 

#

The boat feels like it’s made of plastic, and I feel covered in cellophane. The ocean might as well be a bath, and the ripping tides a child’s wild movements. I stare out at the spraying waves, choosing to stand at the bow, instead of beneath the deck. I’m wet from sea-spray, but my face is coated in its own salty tears. I’m not sure why I’m crying now, for what reason I have to leak. 

“ _O teach me how I should forget to think,”_ I murmur. The lighthouse in the distance illuminates the shack on the rock, and I stare it down. For a moment I’m confused; it looks different than it did when I left it. I think I left a light on, but that couldn’t be possible. I never turned lights on in the morning, for fear of forgetting to turn them off before I set sail for those long three days. Then, the beam from the lighthouse moves on, and the house is cast back into darkness. A trick, I think. “ _Oh, I have suffered / With those I saw suffer.”_

When we dock, Howard helps me off the boat. He gives me a curt nod. 

“Back Tuesday, early,” he says tightly. “Get Riley to help.” I try to smile, but it feels tight. I turn to the house. 

It looks empty, but something about it feels off. Even as I pull out my keys, I get the feeling I may not need them. But I put the key in the lock and it turns. Maybe it was the strange encounter I had with Charlie that had so set my teeth on edge. Even so, I felt the fear of strangers in corners lapping at me. “ _The time is out of joint,_ ” I whisper to myself as I turn the light beside my desk on and lock my door. I yell and jump; sitting before me, as well could be a ghost, is Oliver. He looks different. Older, stronger. A few lines of grey run through his dark hair. 

“It gets cold here,” he comments offhandedly. The silence between us stretches out; I’m at a loss of what to say. “I mean seriously, how do you stay warm in this place?” 

“How-” I stutter, looking around. There’s a duffle bag beside the couch and a half-full cup of water in front of him. 

“Did I get in?” he finishes, then shrugs. “Your bedroom window wasn’t locked.” 

“No,” I choke out, “how did you get here?” 

“Boat, from Washington. Couple nights ago now, I’d say Tuesday, around midnight.” His voice is deeper, too. He’d always been larger than me, but prison had made him into something I didn’t recognize. Not necessarily a powerhouse, but tough. Chiselled. He scanned my face. “James Smith, huh? _God hath given you one face and you make yourself another._ ” I shiver as he quotes Hamlet, remembering my nightmare, and step backwards away from him. I’m reminded of last night, of the conversation with Charlie and his hulking frame. Oliver’s dark eyes are kinder, but haunted. He steps around the table towards me, hands outstretched as if coaxing a wounded animal out of hiding. “It took me some time,” he says; his voice is low and coaching, “to find you. I thought maybe, the beach. And…” 

“How _did_ you find me, Oliver?” I ask, voice hoarse but strong. He freezes and stands tall, looking at me. And for a while, he just stares at me, as if realizing what he’s seeing. His face is pale, and I realize that a ghost stands in front of him, because I am that: a ghost. A specter, whose invisible form reappeared out of nowhere. But as he stood, staring, I felt that same, white-hot anger bubble inside of me that I felt when Charlie slapped me at the hotel. This anger - this intense, crazed feeling, propels me towards him. My hands make contact with his shoulders and I shove him. He lands on the wooden floor of my cottage, grunting in surprise. 

“Who told you where I was?” I demand, and my tone is a shaky yell; something inside of me has become unhinged. He shakes his head, and I think I see a flash of the same fear I saw when he figured me out all those years ago. 

“No one,” he says as he brushes dust from his elbows and checks his palms for splinters. “I asked around the area. You weren’t that hard to find, James, once I figured out the note.” He pauses, and watches me as I start to lose my composure again. 

“ _You would play upon me,_ ” I start, voice cracking. “ _You would seem to know my stops-_ ” 

Oliver rises and I take a few steps away from him. “ _Doubt thou the stars are fire,_ ” he says, stepping towards me. His footfalls are heavy, and I let him come, feeling the weight of my mistakes pressing upon me. “ _Doubt that the sun doth move; / Doubt truth to be a liar; / But never doubt I love._ ” 

And I break. A few tears at first, and a scream of rejection, but Oliver’s strong, steady hands catch me and I’m pulled into his chest, weak-kneed and trembling. Fear pounds in me, as fast as my blood, and I let it. I close my eyes and breath in his smell, which is new and changed too. 

#

_We are such stuff as dreams are made on;_

_And our little life is rounded with a sleep._

#

Time passes egregiously slowly for us both. Oliver carries me to the bed and removes my shoes before he tucks me under the covers. I feign sleep for a long while, while his too long body lays out on the couch in my too small living room. Time resets in the morning, and the first light wakes me from a restless slumber. I didn’t dream; I don’t think I was ever asleep long enough to dream, and somehow that is, in itself, a blessing. Each creak the house sat me bolt upright in bed. I’m too afraid of the ghosts. The memories of Dellecher flash in my brain, like brands. I can hear Oliver’s light footsteps, and the sound of the toilet flushing. I rise from my bed and pace to my door to listen. He pads back to the couch. I can’t tell just by the squeaks if he’s laid down or not, but I sneak the bedroom door open and peek around the corner, trying to remain invisible. Oliver is not on the couch at all, but staring out the wide window at the stormy ocean. His hands are stuffed in the pockets of his sweatpants. 

Before I can stop myself, I step out of the bedroom and around the corner, leaning against the wall of the living room to watch him. He’s whispering something under his breath, like a poem or a song, something I can’t quite make out. I want to move closer, but I also want to keep my distance. Oliver is as much a ghost to me as I am to him. He clears his throat. 

“ _And in all the war with Time for love of you, / As he takes from you, I engraft you new._ ” He turns, and seems surprised to see me watching. 

“Fifteen,” I comment. “That’s a new one for you.”

“I had ten years to learn a lot of new things,” he replies. It’s not calloused or bitter, but it stings just the same. It must be apparent on my face, because his thoughtful expression turns to one of consternation, but I brush it away. 

“You should go home, Oliver,” I say. He looks at me, and I wonder if, for a second, he will agree and pack his bags; will I have to call him a boat, or will he have his own number? If Charlie were to come here, how would I explain it? But even though he wavers while looking at me, he shakes his head. 

“But I don’t want to.” 

“Four years changed a lot for me.” 

“Not enough.” 

“What does that mean?” 

He pauses and stares at me. “It means, if you really hadn’t wanted me to find you, you would’ve found a way to stop me.” 

I press my hands over my face. “Like how?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“Then why are you here?” 

“Because James, I love you, and for one fucking second, I thought you loved me back.” His words are shocking, enough to make me lift my head and watch his cheeks turn ruddy with color. I don’t know what to say. Silence fills me - and him, I think. We both move to sit on the couch, not facing each other. He continues to look out the wide window at the black ocean, while I count the lines on my hands and think about getting up to make coffee, without having the energy to want to. 

“Do you have coffee, James?” Oliver asks, almost reading my thoughts. I nod and rise, boneless. “I shouldn’t have come here,” he whispers. I agree and I don’t agree, split between two worlds as I am. My love for Oliver had kept me frozen for ten years, and now that he’s here, my heart is too cold to know how to feel. I don’t reply to him, and move instead to the coffee maker, reaching into my cabinet for the tin of coffee; it’s weak, but not terrible, and an extra scoop makes it strong enough for Oliver. 

“I-” I start, turning to face him. “I’m glad you came.” Oliver’s eyes flash to mine as I take the glass carafe to the sink, facing away so he can’t see the flush I can feel rising. I can hear him get up, though, and step across the weak floorboards towards me. He’d removed his shoes at some point and his bare feet sound careful against the rough, aged wood. I bite my lip as the coffee pot fills with water and I have to turn again to pour it into the water tank of the coffee maker. 

Oliver stares at me from a few feet away, his gaze intense and wondering. 

“I know I was mean… last night,” I start, and I finally look at him, “but it’s okay that you came.” There’s a long silence between us and I turn away again, beginning to feel uncomfortable under the scrutiny of his gaze. The water sounds loud in my ears as I pour it into the tank and replace the pot, switching the machine on. I look around the kitchen and think about the things I have to bring back to the mainland with me, and how desperately I don’t want to leave my shack. I would like to stay here forever, with or without Oliver, who I can hear moving closer. 

“Have things been okay, James?” I stare at the tiled counter and ponder his question. Between the jobs and moving here and the years spent hiding from myself, I wasn’t sure what ‘okay’ meant anymore. For a second I’m cast back to the pier at Dellecher, and my mind is filled with that sandy, white-noise that always comes with memories. Oliver’s hand on my shoulder brings me back with a jolt. It’s gentle and barely there, but I shift away despite that; his hand falls back to his side, and I can see him answering the question on his own.

“No,” I answer anyway, my voice stiff. “It’s been awful.” Oliver reaches out to touch me again, and this time I let him. I fold against his hand, and my eyes track from his fingertips against me to the hard line of his arm, all the way up to his jaw, his mouth, those dark eyes with their lines and slightly hollow gaze. There’s nothing more to say. We just watch each other as the coffee machine gurgles quietly, and the house is filled with the washing sounds of the ocean, which I’d come to love as much as him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you like what you read, consider subscribing to the story to stay update on when new chapters go out, or drop a kudo, comment, or bookmark.   
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> Have a great day, stay sane xx - Liv


	3. Shared Space

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, chapter three is finally done. I lost all the precious subscribers and bookmarks and things that people used to keep track of this story -- I hope one day you find me out at sea and return. 
> 
> This chapter is a little sad and a little reassuring, so I hope you can find comfort in that. 
> 
> If you're interested in other fandom things, such as The Hunger Games, Shakespeare stuff, MCU garbage/spoilers, and potential Original Content™, go ahead and follow my 

Oliver stays, and his presence is both an anomaly and a godsend. I can’t breathe but to be around him, and even so, my palms sweat every time he comes near me. Something about his existence in this shared space causes me both anxiety and amazement. Every day of the last ten years had been a horror, a nightmare cast into reality in which my best friend and the love of my life was lost to the perils and trials of prison. The last four years had been the most troubling, without even seeing his face - then knowing he was free to walk among other men made it all the worse. 

“James,” Oliver says, pacing from the window to the kitchen, past where I sit reading at the kitchen table. It had been another day since I’d told him to stay, since I’d told him it was okay for him to be there. “What do you do when you’re not reading?”

I shrug. “Sometimes I’ll sit outside and watch the ocean,” I reply, flicking the ash from my cigarette into the ashtray. He grimaces at the sight. “Or smoke outside or sleep. This is just a waystation, Oliver, a place for me to get away and be away from the world. There’s nothing really for two people to do here.” 

He opens my fridge and peers into the nearly empty mouth. “Do you even eat when you’re here?” 

“Of course,” I reply. “There’s a box of Rice-A-Roni in the cabinet above your head.” 

“Just one?” he asks, confused. 

“What, do you need six? You’re big now but you’re not a goliath,” I scoff, and drag my cigarette once more, turning back to _A Room with a View_. But now he’s in my space, clinking in the kitchen, and I can’t focus on the book anymore. I close it with a snap and set it on the table, watching him putz around and try to figure out how to work the few electrical items I have. “Move,” I say, standing. “I don’t need you hurting yourself.” 

“ _You have such a February face,_ ” Oliver starts, and I bite back a laugh, hurrying to finish the line as I tear open the box of rice and pour it into the hot skillet, moving the rice and pasta mixture around. 

“ _So full of frost, of storm and cloudiness,_ ” I say, sticking my tongue out at him over my shoulder. There’s a banter here that I haven’t felt in months - years even, and I watch him pace lazily back to the couch, his wide shoulders partitioned neatly by the white tank top he wears. The chill of the house seemed to have dissipated upon his arrival, and I stare unflinchingly until the water boils and then I cover the mixture, turn it down, and wait. My cigarette burns listlessly in the ashtray; I hurry to finish it, considering Oliver’s ignored words from the night before. 

_“Because, James, I love you, and for one fucking second, I thought you loved me back.”_ These words ring through my head as sharply as any line from Shakespeare could, and I can’t help by wonder if he meant it. Oliver, loving me. What were the consequences of this? _The course of true love never did run true,_ I think to myself, and glance at him again. His dark hair is pushed back off his face, and he sucks on the grafite tip of a pencil while staring down at a paperback book of puzzles. The phone rings, startling me out of my thoughtful contemplation of Oliver. It causes my heart to practically jump out of my mouth. I stare at it, and listen to it ring again and again and again until Oliver turns. 

“Are you going to answer that?” he asks, scowling. I step towards it, my nerves lapping eagerly over each other. 

“Hello?” I say as I press the phone to my ear. 

“James,” Charlie’s voice comes from the other end of the line. “I’ve been wanting to call you for three days, but I just thought you’d need space.” I can hear the blood rushing in my ears. “I’m so sorry,” he says, and his words sound strained, as if he’s holding back tears or a sneeze. “I know it was wrong, the way I reacted. I was drunk - I didn’t - didn’t mean to -” 

“Didn’t mean to hit me? Or say terrible things to me?” I ask, tone cold and demanding. He stops talking, and I can hear Oliver turning on the couch. I ignore him, still faced away. 

“It’s not like that-” Charlie begins again. 

“Then what _is_ it like, Charlie?” My words are bitter and icy, and there is no tremble to my voice now, no fear digging into me; I am hardened anger. The memory of my fear after Halloween ten years ago strikes me like a high, wet wave, but the fear cannot touch me - I am too aware of his nature. 

“I just-” he stutters, “you don’t know what it’s like - I’m so afraid of losing you- I can’t think straight sometimes,” he pauses to swallow and his breathing turns heavy. 

Oliver’s hand on my back makes me jump, but I lean into it; this is the first time he’s touched me since I admitted to wanting him here, and I cover my mouth as a silent scream of rage leaves me. Oliver takes the phone gently from my grasp and returns the receiver to its hook. I stare at it, and we stand there, with one of his hands on the phone and the other pressed to the small of my back; me holding in the rage with three fingers pressed to my slightly parted mouth. I turn to look at him, and see him for the first time - really see him - in ten years. The phone rings again, but Oliver lifts and drops the receiver into its cradle, and even as a tear slips down my face, I am laughing. 

“I,” I start, then swallow and pause to think. There are so many things I want to say: excuses and reasons and demands. My mind is so full of things I swore I would never reveal, but I reach out to gently caress his cheek. “ _I love you with so much of my heart that none of it is left to protest,_ ”I say finally. His face softens, and he releases a soft breath of amusement. 

“ _My bounty is as boundless as the sea, / My love as deep._ ” He closes the gap between our faces, reaching the hand that was on the phone to the back of my neck. His lips whisper against my own as he finishes the line. “ _The more I give to thee, / The more I have, for both are infinite._ ” When he kisses me, time stands still, and though my heart is still guarded, he warms it enough to breach some of its defenses. This isn’t like a kiss from a stranger, or a one-night stand. It’s not a kiss that Charlie bestows in haste or lust. This is soft, genuine, and Oliver’s five-o’clock shadow tickles my chin and cheek as he pulls me hard into his grip. My hands are lifeless against his chest, but my mouth works furiously with his, pulling and tugging and aching. The phone rings again, and Charlie picks the phone up off the hook, ends the call with his knuckles, and leaves the receiver dangling by its wound up cord. He drags me backwards towards the couch. 

“Wait,” I whisper, and Oliver groans. 

“What?” 

“Our food.” Oliver’s head falls back as he releases me and I hurry back to the stove, shedding the lead from the steaming pan of almost done Rice-A-Roni. Some part of me is anxious to stay here, to eat, to make the most of the time I have away from his hands to settle back into the idea of truly loving Oliver again. I reach into the cupboard above me for bowls. I only have the two. Lucky I even have that. 

There’s something about knowing what Oliver wants, knowing that he wants me and that I want him that terrifies me. It was always there, in the back of my mind, like an afterthought, but now it’s real and huge and something about it. I lift the lid to our food and give it a quick stir, ignoring the sounds of Oliver huffing and settling back into the couch.

When the food is done, I serve it and we eat facing each other at my ramshackle kitchen table. Every so often I watch him, and every so often I catch him watching me, and it’s mostly silent. I think there isn’t much to say with the tension feeding us from earlier. As I scrape the last few grains of rice from the bottom of my bowl, I realize really for the first time what him being here means. 

“Does anyone know where you are?” I ask, pulling a cigarette from my nearly empty pack. Oliver sets his spoon down and scratches his nose. 

“No,” he replies. “Meredith thinks- I-” he stutters to a stop and clears his throat awkwardly. “There’s a lot about the last year you don’t know.” 

“Such as?” 

“I lived with Meredith,” he says, avoiding my gaze. “Colborne retired. My sister’s in rehab again.” 

“That doesn’t seem like much, Oliver.” 

“But it is,” he says, finally meeting my gaze. I drag my cigarette and try to ignore the tears welling in his eyes. “It’s too much. Because the first thing I hear, the first real, solid thing ever is that you’re dead.” 

“But we’re not talking about me, are we?” I ask, swallowing down the emotion I can feel stirring in my voice. 

“No, ‘cause here you are.” 

“ _I bear a charmed life._ ” My tone is bitter with my reply, and I stand, dragging myself away from the table to dump my dish into the sink. I can’t be bothered to wash anything, so pent up are my nerves. Instead I stand gripping the edge of the sink, reminded horribly of my boat ride to the mainland and Charlies fingers on my ribs. When Oliver’s hand presses wordlessly into my back, I spring away, terrifically on edge. 

“James,” he whispers, a melancholy sort of air tinging his voice. 

“You’re- it’s like you’re not real, Oliver,” I spit, fidgeting restlessly with the edge of my shirt. “It’s like you’re not real and yet I’m the one who shouldn’t be real. How fucked up is that, Oliver?” I turn to look at him, and for a moment I feel body-less, as though I really am a ghost. Oliver brings his hands up to gently hold my face, freezing me in place. 

“ _Give thy thoughts no tongue_ ,” he whispers, but doesn’t make a move besides that. I can feel the tears springing to my eyes, and try desperately to look away, but fail with him holding my head as he is. Everything in me screams to run, but I close my eyes and take a breath, and when I open them again I’m staring past the lenses of his glasses, into the dark brown of his irises, and everything is clear for one heart stopping moment. Then, Oliver releases me and I stumble forward, catching myself on his wide chest before stepping back again, away from him. “We could leave here,” Oliver said, his voice quiet. “Just you and me. Change our names and never look back.” I stare at him. 

“Is that what you want?” I ask, voice hoarse. “To leave your family, our friends- to never see that world again?” Oliver stares at me for a while, his eyes scanning my face. He leans forward, so he is inches from me, his breath hot against my skin. 

“I want you, James,” he says, and the ache of longing tugs at my belly. “I want you more than I think I’ve ever wanted anything.” I don’t speak and I don’t move, I just wait for him to come, for his hands to press into me, for his lips to demand mine, like Charlie’s would have after a pronouncement like that. But they don’t. He stays resolutely still, waiting for me to react or push him away. I want to. I want to drive away this sick urge to follow him to the ends of the earth, this uncalculated and unbridled need that grabs hold of me and urges me forward. Instead, I close the distance between us and press my lips to his as hot lust pools in my groin. Even as our lips touch, I moan my answer. 

“I want you, too.” 

His hands wrap around me, yanking me up into his grasp, encouraging me to wrap my legs around him and let him carry me away. In the living room, where the wide window brings in the grey light from the stormy sky, he lays me on the couch and kisses down my neck; here, I close my eyes and hear him, the sighs that escape me become tactile and create around us a bubble, from which nothing can escape. Not even me. 

#

_Love is a smoke raised with the fume of sighs;_

_Being purged, a fire sparkling in lovers' eyes;_

_Being vexed, a sea nourished with loving tears._

_What is it else? A madness most discreet,_

_A choking gall, and a preserving sweet._

#

For once, when I wake in the morning, naked with arms curled around my limber frame, it’s not suddenly or coated in a cold chill. When I yawn and stretch and glance out my bedroom window, I can tell already that the morning brings fog, and with it a sense of struggling uncertainty. I look at Oliver, and find myself drawn back into the covers, wanting to rest -- and be rested with -- for another long while. But he stirs when I move to gaze on his features, and my eyes soften when his own open. 

“Good morning,” he whispers, reaching up to brush his fingers across my face. I lean into his touch then settle closer to him, hovering above him on my side. I lacked a response that wasn’t a repetition of his words, and instead move my face closer to his and kiss him without a care for the fact that we’d just woken up, or that I wasn’t afraid of any of this. The hand which had been trailing fingers down my jaw pulls me in closer, and soon he’s surrounding me. When he pulls away, my head still spins with his presence. “ _Speak low, if you speak love_ ,” he whispers, running his thumb over my lips. I smile and hesitate before I reply. 

“ _The love of heaven makes one heavenly_ ,” I say, low and soft and murmured into the shell of his ear. He laughs and kisses me again, and god, even Shakespeare’s words fail to perceive how much Oliver feels like home. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading.  
> If you like what you read here and want to stay updated, subscribe to this story.  
> If you want to stay updated on what I'm writing, subscribe to me, or follow my tumblr, linked above.   
> Have an _excellent_ day -xx

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading.  
> If you like what you read here and want to stay updated, subscribe to this story.  
> If you want to stay updated on what I'm writing, subscribe to me, or follow my tumblr: [thedemonledger](https://thedemonledger.tumblr.com/)  
> Have an excellent day! -Olive


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